


Eternal Youth

by laideur



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 5 Times, Ageing, Cars, Death and mourning, M/M, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Victorian, old as fuck kinkmeme prompts, safe words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/pseuds/laideur
Summary: The prompt was, "5 times Holmes and Watson feel old and 1 time they feel young," or something to that effect.





	

1884

Hearing a cry of dismay from Holmes’ room, I hurried over to see what was the matter. 

He was standing in front of his washbasin, dressed only in shirtsleeves, peering into his shaving mirror, with a look of such exaggerated annoyance and dismay on his usually schooled features that the effect was quite comical. 

“Holmes, whatever is the matter?” 

Without turning toward me, but eyeing me in the mirror so that I could receive the full impact of his piteous expression, he said mournfully, “I found a grey hair.”

I had to laugh at this, for Sherlock Holmes was ever a fellow prone to vanity and histrionics.

“I hardly see the cause for amusement, Watson.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I did not mean to laugh.” I could understand his distress, for he had a head of the most beautiful raven hair. “I think you would look quite distinguished with a bit of gray, actually,” I said honestly. 

“Thank you, but I do not think that is an experiment I am prepared to make just yet.” And, taking hold of the offending hair between thumb and forefinger, he plucked it out. 

1894

Holmes knew I was leading us toward the cemetery, for he knows the paths of London like the back of his hand. He walked beside me wordlessly, allowing me to take my circuitous route there. 

She was my wife, and I had loved her. Despite the place in my heart that ever belonged to the man standing beside me, I had loved her, as well as I was able. 

I paid my respects at her grave and tried to remember how many of the people I once loved had died.

And how many had returned. 

Taking a parting glance around the graveyard, so desolate and cold in the autumn mist, I at last turned to Holmes.

His hand gripped mine, softly, and he led me home. 

1899

Holmes has a great deal to say on the subject of sufficient imagination. However, he has not uttered one word of criticism on my ability to invent depraved acts to perform on his person. On this memorable occasion I had found use for a length of ribbon, a pair of handcuffs, several articles from Holmes’ feminine disguise kit, and the stopper from the crystal whiskey decanter. 

All was going well, when he suddenly stiffened beneath my hands and attempted to jerk away from me, shaking his head. I pulled the long silk glove out of his mouth. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes, let me down,” he said through clenched teeth. “No more of this—I cannot-- _Dupin_! _Dupin_ , _Dupin_ , _Dupin_. “

I cut the knot of ribbon tied to the curtain rod and uncuffed his wrists. He stumbled over to his armchair and collapsed into it, flinging his stocking-clad legs over the footstool. 

I leaned over him, concerned. “Are you hurt? It was a foolish idea, I should never have suggested—“

“No, no, do not blame yourself. It’s only—my back is not as strong as it once was.” He twisted around stiffly in his chair and I heard a surprisingly loud _pop_. Satisfied, he settled back against the cushions. 

“I shall take your health into consideration in the future, before I propose similar exercises,” I said as I lifted his feet and placed them on the floor. I sat on the footstool between them and ran my hands up his thighs, plucking amusedly at the garter belts. “As much fun as it is to tie you up, I hardly think a back brace would hold the same appeal.”

“It is a pity that we had not begun this sort of activity earlier in our acquaintance.”

This gave me pause, for I had often had the same thought, what may have been if either he or I had been more forthcoming in our youth.

 

1904

“It’s a bathroom, Holmes.” 

It was a remarkably nice bathroom, to be honest. The entire cottage was nice. It was outfitted with modern enough fixtures for comfort, but still retained a quaint pastoral charm that was untouched by time. 

“But look at the plumbing! Hot and cold running water at any hour, day or night, and a tub big enough for two grown men at least.”

“My dear fellow!”

“The days of stuffing oneself into a copper pot half-filled with tepid water are well and truly over,” he crowed. 

It would be no small luxury, having good plumbing this far out in the country. 

“And there’s a lovely carpet here so you will never, ever slip on wet tile.”

This gave me some pause, and a suspicion began to grow in my mind. “Holmes, do you mean to say the bathtub is for me?” I asked pointedly.

“Of course it’s not only for you, but I did keep you in mind while I was having it designed. You have been rather careful with your leg as of late.”

“My leg is the same as it has been for years,” I protested hotly, though it was not an entirely honest statement. “I am not so old and decrepit that I need to be bathed like an invalid.”

Holmes raised an imperious eyebrow at me. “Doubtless, you are as capable of bathing yourself as any man in the prime of life. But how will you feel in ten years? Or twenty? Or thirty? I only want you to be comfortable.”

I was momentarily struck dumb by the idea that he had envisioned living here, with me, for decades into the future. I am afraid that I had an absurd smile on my face and was no longer in any position to argue with him. 

 

1918

“Do you know, Mycroft insists he remembers the World’s Fair in ’51.”

“Does he really,” I murmured. 

“He can’t remember what month it is, or the name of his nurse, but I don’t doubt his claims for an instant.”

“Do you suppose you’ll live to see the next ‘51?”

Holmes looked at me sharply. “If you expect me to live until 1951 you had damned well better plan on doing so yourself.”

I chuckled. “I look forward to receiving a congratulatory letter from the monarch upon my centennial. Though I cannot imagine what the world will be like then, what mankind will have accomplished.”

“Indeed. It hardly bears thinking about.” 

I glanced sidelong at my friend. His tone of voice did not bode well. 

“Human wickedness is continuously outdoing itself, finding cleverer and more efficient ways to wreak terror and mayhem. If things continue unchecked I am not sure I will want to be around to see that year.” He puffed on his pipe and gazed out the window, lost in his own thoughts. I laid my hand on his own, thin and blue-veined and worn with time, and did not bother trying to count how often I had marveled at the keenness of his feeling, or the depth of his heart. 

 

1920

I was sitting quietly at my desk when I was jolted out of my skin by a blaring noise from in front of the house. 

I stumbled outside, only to stand rooted in surprise on my own doorstep. At the end of the garden path, gleaming in the sun was a brand new automobile. And in the driver’s seat was Sherlock Holmes, silver head similarly gleaming like a shiny metal fixture.

“What on earth have you done!” I cried, approaching him, though hard as I tried to sound perturbed I could not hide my smile. 

He beamed at me. “I thought it was about time we acquired one of our own. My hips were getting tired of the walk into town. Besides, I have wanted one of these for a very long time.” He ran his gloved hands over the wheel sensually. “Climb in. Let us, as they say, go for a spin.” 

I climbed in beside him and he threw one arm around my shoulders. “This is a beautiful machine.” 

“The march of progress, Watson! Are you ready?”

As it so happened, I was still wearing my house slippers, and I hadn’t a coat on. Also, he was still clinging to me. 

“Holmes, you can’t drive with one arm.”

“Yes I can, if you would be so kind as to shift when I say ‘shift.’”

“Very well,” I said.

“Shift.”

I shifted the stick forward, and we backed into the rhododendron bush adorning the garden fence. 

“Holmes—“

“Shift again.” 

I pushed the stick further forward.

And we were off, roaring down the road, wind howling in our ears. An elderly farmer on a bicycle crashed into a shrubbery as we came skidding around a corner. I called a hasty apology out to him, but Holmes only laughed, bright and vibrant as the spring sunshine. 

We rumbled over the country road, loud as thunder and smelling of petrol. “Where should we go,” Homes shouted above the din of the engine. “We could go to the beach!”

“I don’t care,” I answered, “just keep going! Let’s see how fast we can go!”

**Author's Note:**

> Alas, I believe the identity of whoever came up with the idea that "Dupin" is their safeword has been lost to time, though it was not me.


End file.
